


Tit / Tat

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:43:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pair of drabbles centering around Fatih, prison and what it means to grow up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tit / Tat

Prison mattresses suck. Faith rolls over on hers, trying not to breath in the sour scent of too many other women sweating and fucking on unwashed fabric. It's not comfortable, but Faith's not after comfort.

A few cells down, Carla Ann's smacking her bitch around. The current victim is a thin, spindly-looking black woman who'd turned an unfortunate trick, getting herself caught up in the kind of intrigue and mystery most working girls know better than to get involved in. Politicians are always bad news, and money never translates into Richard fucking Gere. Leane, the hooker, is on the stupider side, and didn't see anything but a face from the tv and a whole lot of green, so she'd said yes and then yes, and then blinked with stupid surprise when she found herself on the stand, lawyers accusing her of asking the good senator for money, blackmailing him and threatening his wife if he didn't pay.

The girl's practically retarded, not that anyone can tell with her soft voice and alluring curves. She couldn't blackmail a mouse for her dinner.

Faith hopes that sonofabitch senator enjoys his divorce. The jury'd bought all of it, but the wife sure as hell hadn't.

Leane's dumbfuck lawyers had told her she'd be safe in prison, at least. Right. Safe. Faith rolls her eyes in the darkness. Leane's pretty as a model, dumber then dirt, and she wasn't bothered about the gender of her partners. They'd had to _organize_ the damned fights for her, not that it was a surprise who won. Carla Ann likes to fight, likes to hurt what's hers even more, and Leane spends most of her time too swollen and bruised to be pretty anymore. No one says anything. Carla Ann's self proclaimed queen of their cellblock -- hell, half the guards are hers, even if they cared to report one 'stupid cunt' beating on her 'stupid bitch'.

Real creative, the guards here. Faith knows she's no Willow but hell, she's cracked at least a few books in her life. Christ, but she'd hated how dumb she felt next to Buffy and her friends. Even Xander, dorky and pathetic, had seemed smarter. Made better grades, at least, when she'd bothered to stick around to take tests.

She wonders where he is, now. If he's okay. If he understands just how badly she'd mistreated him. Part of her doesn't think so, because show a boy titties and it doesn't matter how Giles they are -- their dicks start thinking and little things like 'consent' and 'erotic-asphyxiation' take on a nice, rosey glow. Faith knows. Xander wasn't the first she'd played games with, after all -- except, with Xander, it wasn't a game at all. Because Xander hadn't just wanted a sweaty fuck.

He'd wanted _her_. 

So sometimes Faith thinks he does know, does understand, because Xander is one of the smartest men she's ever met, for all he was still a boy, then. And she's not sure which is worse, facing a man who knows just what a bitch she'd been to him, or a man that needed the explanation.

She hopes he doesn't think all girls are like her. He'd tried to be gentle with her, so fucking _nice_ , and the more giving he was, the more she'd wanted to beat him down. Make him hurt for offering her something she'd taught herself not to want.

A dull _thud_ and following _clang_ pulls Faith away from her thoughts. Whether Xander knows or not doesn't matter a damn when she's in here and can't talk to him. She will when she's out -- got herself a whole list, after all. But that may be a long time coming if Carla Ann's thrown her girl into the bed, again, because Faith's had just about enough.

She's been here three months, so far. Hasn't gotten into any fights, too emotionally worn out to deal with any of it. Angel stopping by periodically helps, too; talks her out of things, calms her down before she pops. But Carla Ann's been making noises about looking Faith's way, something she hasn't done since Faith arrived in a straight jacket, damned near frothing at the mouth when anyone got close to her. Insanity makes a nice little defense, if you've got the muscle to back it up. She'd hit a few guards, hard enough to make anyone with eyes wary, and Carla Ann's not stupid. She's a mean motherfucker and greedy, sure, but she's not stupid.

Neither is Faith. It's just taken her this long to pull everything back under her skin, to remember who and what she is. Not what Buffy thinks she should be. Not what Angel wants her to be. Not what the Mayor tried to mold into being.

Who _Faith_ is.

And one thing Faith can't stand is watching people like Carla pick on those who _can't_ fight back. The ones that are too stupid or cowardly? She doesn't care about them, they make their own beds. But Leane's got no way of protecting herself, and Carla's going to kill her if nobody stops her.

Faith's momma always told her it was better to be a somebody than a nobody.

Leane's crying by now, choked back cries that sound worse than actual sobs. An inmate shouts for Leane to shut the hell up -- can't tell Carla Ann to leave her toy alone, after all -- and lying on her crappy bed, Faith begins to smile.

"Hey Carla Ann," she shouts, amused and not bothering to hide it. "I'm trying to sleep. You think maybe you could stop beating Leane a few minutes, give the rest of us a break?"

The dead silence that follows is nice. Faith's learned to like the quiet and she anticipates a nice, long stay in solitary.

* * * * * * *

She's almost zen, now. Kind of not, seriously, because she fights way too much for that, but there are definite Buddhist like qualities about her. The way she sits in the sun in the yard, ignoring the chattering women who play and act like tentative friends 'cause they've got no other options. The ones that circle each other like beasts, even if their weapons are words instead of claws.

The words cut deeper. Faith always grins when the men fight across the wall, their shouts attracting hoots and cat-calls from the ladies. They know. Men are quick, adrenaline-fast and no real follow through because once there's blood, they're pretty much done.

Most men, anyway. Some are more patient, biding their time and planning their sideways attacks almost the way a woman does.

If she tells him that, she thinks, he might even get the compliment.

"Lehane!" The word ricochets, and it's meant to. Guards never get subtleties. "Visitor! Move your ass."

She's sweaty but airs never work on him, and would probably offend both of them. He grins at her when he first sees her, the same boyish excitement and _please, me, pick me, I can do it, coach, honest_ that she remembers from the first time she met him. Doesn't last long, though.

"So you're back," she says. No tv-stereotype of phones and glass boxes to sit in. It's just a table, surrounded by other tables, with a guard barely watching from one side.

He shrugs. Inmates count how many days they've been in jail with religious ferver, but those numbers never really translate to those who're outside. How many years has it been? Two? Three? He looks like an old man, not a kid who's younger than twenty five.

He is, isn't he?

"Was the stuff I gave you before okay?"

She nods, cautious because Xander can be sweet, but that doesn't mean _generous_. "Yeah. Thanks for the books, especially. It gets boring and I've read most of the good stuff our library has. Is it okay if I donate them?"

"Yeah, sure. No problem. Maybe somebody else will like them, too."

The words are almost formal -- and he isn't looking at her. At all. Arms on the table, Faith leans forward for as much privacy as someone can have when they're a guest of the State of California. "Hey. You okay?"

His knee is bouncing faster than Tigger and if he doesn't get his breathing steady he's gonna ulcer himself to an early heart attack. Or something medical Faith doesn't give a crap about, so she reaches out to grab his wrist. It's a well-publicized move -- can't forget her watch dog, Jose the one who's breath smells like old cat -- but it still makes Xander go still.

"How do you do it?" he asks her. Pleads, almost, with a desperation she immediately recognizes. "I mean, I get the whole tune in next time for the exciting conclusion part, the one that never comes because hey, why should any of us get closure? But, I mean ..." His heart is racing, baby birds cheeping at Fiath's finger tips. "How do you know?"

Her eyebrows furrow for a second or two, and then she gets it -- the fresh blood on his sleeve is a big ass clue, after all. Spike. Dawn had mailed her all the details, or at least as much as her revenge-ful heart could stomach -- Faith was getting good at reading between the lines and her bullshit detector still worked damn fine, after all.

"That's not what you're asking me, Xander, and you know it. Ask me."

It's taken her years to get where she's at. Days spent pounding on the punching bag until her knuckles are bleeding, there are holes in the wall, and she's screaming at demons with no hearts to stake. Days where she's cried hard enough to want her mother, a fool of a woman who'd never given Faith anything, least of all affection. Days when she's buried herself in someone else's words, even if she can't understand half of them, even if she feels like an idiot when major chunks of the book go right past her. She gets what she needs.

Xander doesn't have any of that, of course. He's had one failure after betrayal after disappointment and Faith's not sure she can still see the boy who'd talked about antithetical concepts as she ripped his shirt off. He's practically sweating, shifting on his chair like he's got ants in his pants and if she lets go, she knows he'll bolt.

She doesn't. She just waits, silent as she knows how, because Xander hates silence.

"How do you know when it's _real_? How do you know when it's not just another con? When -- " His voice breaks, shatters really, because for all he looks the middle aged patriarch, head of his own little brood -- and Faith knows damned well how Buffy and Dawn treat him, she's got their letters, too -- he's still a kid. He's the oldest of all of them up in Sunnydale, and in too many ways, the youngest, too.

"When you should forgive them?" she finishes. His nod is jerky and she knows he'll cry in his car all the way back to Sunnydale. She thinks more of him for it. "I dunno. When'd you forgive me?"

The snort is kind of gratifying. He glares at her, snapping, "Not really the same thing."

"Isn't it? I don't know, Xander. _You_ didn't fight _me_ off. Hell, you couldn't've, not like I was then. I would've broken you first. I sure as hell never would've run away to find some kind of leash."

Xander gapes at her, as wide-eyed and drop-jawed as if she'd just spouted -- well, no, the horns really isn't a good example in their line of work, is it? Something stunning, then. She's never been great at metaphors. His jaw is still hanging and she has to laugh a little, reaching over to close it.

"And don't say that's not the same thing, Xander, because you know it is. What I did... the motives were different, sure. The methods, too. But do you think he wouldn't have made her come, just like I made you?"

"That is _totally_ not the same thing at _all_ ," he splutters, as self-righteous as Buffy ever was -- but scared, too. Nobody likes to think they're being used. "You -- you didn't hurt me."

Her smile is grim. "Because you didn't fight me, Xander. If you had -- "

"You wouldn't have hurt me."

There's so much conviction there. She doesn't know how to fight it, breaking it down to see the shades of grey that mists around all of them like clouds too-low over the sidewalk. All you can see is what's in front of you, nothing else.

She doesn't know what the true story between Buffy and Spike is, either. She doesn't really care to. It's not her business unless either of them wants it to, but she knows enough to put some theories together, the kinds of things Xander the White Knight can't contemplate.

Faith _would_ have hurt him that night, if he'd said no when she needed so bad. She knows that -- and he does, too.

His slump is abrupt, bowing his head like it weighs too much. She kisses it, smelling the shampoo Anya had to have picked out for him -- too floral -- that he uses because it's familiar and a habit is a habit. "Hey," she says. "Did you forgive me?"

There's nothing but black in his eyes when they meet hers. No reassuring bits of gold or brown or green like normal, eyes that haunt her when she sleeps too much. Just black, and bottomless. "Yes, Faith. I forgave you. Forgive you."

She'd meant it to make a point, but the way he says it, serious and solemn as a vow -- "Thank you." She isn't crying. She's known, felt him tell her without words, but hearing it and knowing he means it -- she _isn't_ crying, because she's got a reputation to maintain, dammit.

Around them, women are talking to their husbands, brothers, children. They aren't paying a lick of attention to Faith and the only person to visit her since Angel stopped, a year or so back, but it's the thought of them that helps her control herself. She smiles at Xander, who smiles back at her.

"Do you think I should forgive him?" Xander asks.

How the hell is she supposed to answer that, she wants to demand. She's been the mail-confessional for months, now, but there's a difference between spending a day or two hashing out a response to a written question and having it tossed at her like an eager, wagging puppy.

But when she blinks away the last of the sting and looks up, she knows the answer. It's the one that lets her believe. A lot of things.

"Funny thing about forgiveness. You can't give it until you feel it yourself. _For_ yourself. And trust whatever made you do it is really gone." Christ, she should start printing out little books with angels haloing her words, like they're that fucking meaningful. But Xander's listening and he doesn't do that for just anybody. "It was an ax, right? One of them big, curvy things."

He nods, not bothering to pretend he doesn't understand. "I don't know if I can forgive him," he tells her and she knows what that means, too. "I was -- Buffy was -- " He shakes his head, trying to shed images like water.

She wishes the brain allowed that, too. "Hey. Doesn't happen fast, you know. Not supposed to."

"It did for _her_."

Faith's laugh is rusty, twisted and bent, but there's genuine mirth in it, enough that Xander stops looking like he ate a crab apple and stares accusingly at her. "Xander, she doesn't forgive him. Hell, she doesn't forgive _me_ , and probably never will. She's using him, plain and simple. He's got something she needs."

Xander's sour expression is answer enough, but it's the wrong one.

Faith rolls her eyes. "She's using him to punish herself. Cause the one person Buffy can't ever forgive is _Buffy._ Get it?"

She has no idea how the topic has come to this, but it feels inevitable. Buffy is the center of their world no matter how much they try and fight it. But when he nods it feels almost like the absolution he'd offered her before, a sense of understanding that's so profound that she gets, now, why men and women can spend all their time praying.

 _She_ can't. She's always been action-girl and always will be. But she gets the why of it, now. And maybe he does to.

"Um. Can I -- " The words are tumbling again, running over themselves in Xander's eagerness to say whatever it is he's trying to say. He's half risen from his seat and she automatically goes up with him, leaning forward -- and almost, _almost_ hurts him when he moves with that abrupt speed she remembers from patroling, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her head next to his neck like they've done this a hundred, a thousand times.

It's more intimate than when he was inside her. It hurts more than that had, too. But when he makes an awkward move to release her, she grabs on tight enough that part of her worries about air constriction -- a fear that never, ever goes away around him -- and refuses to let go of him. His body is solid, a furnace of warmth that should've been uncomfortable in California's unheated finest, but it isn't. It's a different kind of warmth, one that beats steadily against her, giving and taking and sharing. Faith's never been good at it, but with Xander, it's easy. Too easy, in a way -- but she pushes that thought to the past, where it belongs, and tries to memorize the scent of him.

"I'm not trying this with Spike," he whispers into her hair. His grin is audible, as guileless as high school and just as wicked.

The guard's trying not to snicker at them, Faith knows, and her rep is shot to all hell. She's going to have to bust some knees just to keep peace again. But it's worth it. It's totally, amazingly worth it, especially when she says, "I dunno. Spike? That is one hot piece right there. Might be fun, giving him a big ol' hug."

Xander's laughter is almost lush and she carries it with her for days.


End file.
